Vereor Nox
by BetweenheavenandHell
Summary: Before the pilgrimage, before the Asylum, before the fires faded, the People had faith in their Lords and those that spoke their Will. Anything is forgivable if done for the right reasons... isn't it?


**Vereor Nox**

 **Chapter One: Pilgrim**

Morning Mass in the central and indeed only church of the village of Maryland was a soberly quiet occasion. A time of serious and devout introspection that took place before the stained glass window that was the focal point of the structure's Western wall.

Depicting a mighty king holding aloft a blazing flame, the artisans had constructed the glass in such a way that minute amounts of silver lattice work reflected and intensified the rays of the rising sun as it lit the resplendent imagery from behind.

Contrasted with the stark stone walls of the rest of the church especially this made the pool of light in which this morning's pilgrim knelt all the more brilliant.

"By the light of the All Father, I pray for the strength to continue this task. I do the will of our Lords in earnest faith and ask only that they forgive me that which must be done by their mortal servants", the figure whispered, hands clasped tightly around the hilt of the heavy mace that rested head first on the ground before it.

There was a distressing but sadly understandable lack of 'mortal servants' about this day. With the Curse spreading like wildfire in the lands around the Holy Capital of Thorolund border villages like this one had taken to banning massed gatherings, even for the purpose of worship.

It only took one afflicted to begin to change amongst a crowd to cause a massacre. A Dark time indeed this, and one where the people to be protected and the enemy were quite possibly one and the same…

The pilgrim shuck beneath coarse, heavy travel robes, though he told himself a small lie, that it was the coils of chain metal and cold leather under those robes that had brought on a chill, concealed as they were from the light.

From the next chamber over he could faintly hear the rising lilt of the old priest's voice, a steady thrum of words and tones as he recited the tales of ancient actions and miracles performed by the Gods.

Less steady but with growing fervour were the voices of the church acolytes. Young men and women those wish was to join the Way of the White not as follows but instruments of the All Father's will and the edicts of the Lords.

Were their faith true and complete then the memorisation of these tales would allow them to tap into an echo of the Gods power left behind by their actions. A fraction of the real thing yes, but still something mighty.

Humming along with the cadence of their words he found the chill receding, replaced by a faint warmth at his core and leather gloves creaked as he gripped his weapon more tightly.

Yes things were grim, but the Church had a plan as ever and all would be well soon enough.

And in the meanwhile the people had their orders and were prompted to be vigilant and report any signs of affliction to a Church member. Anyone who began to act strangely or forgetfully, was unusually violent-

The pilgrim swallowed reflexively.

Or whom 'survived' a seemingly fatal wound…

They had also been told never to build any of the ceremonial bonfires, symbols of the First Flame, without express consent and oversight from a priest.

Why the afflicted seemed drawn to these most Holy of things was still a mystery but there was work underway to try and contain their odd fascination with the aid of… unique, individuals.

Yes the Way would prevail, no matter the ungrateful rumours being put about that certain members of the very institution's inner circle both militant and political had succumbed to the Curse.

Standing on age stiffened knees the pilgrim dusted his trousers and stomped his boots to resettle the straw stuffed into them to keep out the cold. It was an unusually wintery Fall and the still air in the lowlands here failed to carry warmth in from hotter climbs.

Turning he took a moment to hook the thick leather cord on the hilt of his weapon to the ring of his belt and eyed the only other person in the chamber.

Slender, fragile almost in appearance, the woman was garbed in the soft cream robes of a Maiden of the Way, hood drawn up and down over her face to hide the fair hair and pale complexion of one native to the treacherous land of Carim.

The hems of her skirt were muddy and frayed, not at all a state a true Maiden would allow her ceremonial coverings to get into, but then this was no true Maiden.

This- he reminded himself with a grimace as young, scared blue eyes rose to meet his before darting furtively away- was a monster.

Quickly checking that his belt was properly hitched and nothing had fallen from the numerous pouches for herbs, coin or trinkets attached thereto, the pilgrim stepped closer. He fought down the stabs of compassion that rippled up as the girl flinched as his every ringing step and stopped, towering above her with what he hoped was a stern but not unfriendly mien upon his face.

"What is your name?", he asked, waiting patiently as she fidgeted for a moment before composing herself as he had taught her, back straight, head down and hands folded demurely in her lap.

"A…Anastasia", she replied, risking a glance up at the enquirer.

He said nothing. There was more to come and he could no longer risk reminding her even in private now that they were within the Holy Land.

People here knew how a Maiden should behave and speak.

After a moment and some unbefitting hand wringing she seemed to realise what was missing from her reply, "… of Astora?"

Her head dropped as the pilgrim sighed heavily. No noble lady of the Way would have bespoke her heritage and name with such a lack of confidence, but they hadn't the time to correct this now. He was reasonably sure that their pursuer was closer than ever before. The man they had been warned of had not given up after they had crossed the border and the closer they got to the Cathedral City the less chance he would have of doing… whatever it was he planned.

There was no clear indicator of why they were being pursued, and he had been instructed- vigorously so- that he was to keep his mission and his escort as secret as possible so that ruled out simply barricading her in the local militia garrison and meeting this person head on with a gathering of his brothers in arms.

He had only stopped off at this church because much as it shamed him, doubts had begun to creep into his mind about what was to be done. This was not the first young woman he had brought to the All father and he suspected she would not be the last. How many more were there out there that could touch the Dark? Not just touch it but hold it, shape and mould it into fuel for the Flames.

Why were the afflicted so fascinated with these women also, drawn to them and to the fires they strengthened.

Was it not dangerous to gather so many of them in the Holy Land? Would that not just draw the Curse?

He felt his hand close about the reassuring grip of his mace tightly, though he didn't recall reaching for it and thought as he looked down at the trembling girl trying so hard not to look at anything except her feet.

 _Wouldn't it be more merciful to just kill this blighted creature right now?_

As if she had heard, Anastasia's head snapped upward, fear in those wide, blue eyes. Too blue and too knowing for her age. It was said that when it came to dark thoughts, these women could feel those also.

Flushing with shame the pilgrim coughed roughly, relaxing muscles consciously and nodded toward the thick oak doors through which they had come.

"We should get moving now. The day is young", for an instant he thought she might run, such was she poised, but instead she rose with surprising grace and walked ahead of him to the exit. A Maiden and her escort, very proper.

Stepping around her to push aside the lumbering mass of the door and hold it ajar as she stepped beneath his arm and out in the crisp morning air he couldn't quite suppress a shudder.

The chill from earlier was back and he couldn't shake the feeling that it was not just the result of the weather.

"Vereor Nox"


End file.
